


Over Easy

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [49]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Explosions, F/M, Light Angst, Waffles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same old, same old, just the Doctor and Clara Oswald in a diner. (post-"Hell Bent")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Easy

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: clara and twelve end up at the same place in the universe, trying to solve the same crisis and they end up falling back into their old routine, and the doctor realizes something feels right but he can't figure out why, and clara is just gleeful to have this small pleasure again

The timer ticking down, and the Doctor is running. One hundred and fifty-three steps to the exit, two flights of stairs, five right turns and a left. He knows where the explosion will catch up with him: the mezzanine, by the fountain. Can even hazard a guess what noise the marble will make as it breaks up around him, the last thing he’ll ever hear. He knows where it is he should dies. But he also knows, somehow, that he won’t die, that he _can’t_. Not here, not now. So he runs.

The mezzanine, the fountain, the explosion catching up with him. The Doctor closes his eyes. Finds the space between seconds and gently, gently pries them apart.

 

* * *

_So this is what you do now? Wait for the deus ex machina?_

“Sometimes the universe happens around me. There’s another variable here. I can’t see it, but it’s there, I know that it is, it has to be-”

_Can’t always expect the currents to carry you home._

“Not always, of course. Obviously. But today? Today I do.”

 

* * *

When he comes back to his body, he’s falling gracelessly down to scuffed linoleum. Chemical-lemon clean, fuzzed reflections of the fluorescent lights. He processes details as he fumbles himself upright, nursing the elbow he’d landed on. Air quality, gravity, formica tabletops. A jukebox playing “Funnel of Love”.

He’s been here before.

“You cut your hair,” the waitress says. Wiping down the counter, fingers white-knuckle-tight on the rag. A wobbly smile.

“Yeah, uh. A week ago, I think?” His hand comes up automatically to the back of his head, hair bristling against his palm.

“Suits you.” She looks like she’s about to say something else, but thinks better of it.

“So.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I was exploding-”

“Lots of stuff was exploding-”

“Maybe we should…?”

 

* * *

A city burning up around them. A timer ticking down. The Doctor and Clara Oswald are running. Twenty-four steps and a sharp right turn - she grabs his hand, she forgets she’s not supposed to look at him like that. This means more to her than it does to him. But still, the way their hands fit together, their momentum. The angry buzz of the fence in his head aside, this almost feels natural. This is what happens.

Guards on their heels, they duck into a supply closet. Tight fit, but she’s closer than she has to be, lingers longer than she should when they brush against each other. Keeps looking at his mouth, and he might not know much but he knows enough to understand what that means. Given the context clues.

“Safe for now, I think,” she whispers. Still too close. Her hands on his chest, a melancholy chasing her giddy smile.

He nods, lets her pull him down, his back against the door. He lets her kiss him. It’s - nice. Not sure what he’d been expecting. This means more to her than it does to him.

 

* * *

(It’s like waking up in clothes that don’t fit anymore, like a key for a lock that’s been changed, like walking through your old home after it’s been sold and redecorated, like Proust’s madeleine. It’s nothing at all like any of that. Something knotted-up in your chest, an ache you have no name for.)

(Tears pricking at his eyes and he doesn’t know _why_.)

 

* * *

Her diner’s parked out front. He can hear the waffle-maker that goes ‘ding’, going 'ding’. A face through the window, briefly, rolling eyes partially obscured by a forkload of whipped cream.

Here they are. This feels familiar, too. The parting. (This is what happens, has happened, will continue to-)

“The TARDIS should show up sooner or later. The trip-scheduler can be a bit wonky but it does generally work. So you needn’t worry about me. And Clara - ”

“You don’t have to say it,” Clara says. “I know. Please don’t - just don’t say anything at all, okay?” She’s trying hard not to cry.

He sighs, and pantomimes: movie, two words, sounds like -

“You know what I mean.” She’s giggling, nearly.

“Yeah.” He watches her smile break out, the way it changes her whole face. “I don’t keep forgetting, you know. I’ll remember this. And you.”

She’s holding on hard to her smile, jaw clenched. She grabs his hand, shakes it firmly. “Good to meet you too, Doctor. See you around, hey?”

 

He watches her run fast enough she won’t have time to change her mind. He knows what that’s like, at least. The bell over the diner door ringing, the ship shuddering and vanishing.

And he unfolds the piece of paper she’d pressed into his hand. Cup of coffee, two eggs, sausage - wait, no, other side. A set of coordinates. He huffs out a laugh. Folds it back up carefully, tucks it into his coat pocket.

“See you around, Clara Oswald,” he says quietly, then sits down on the curb, waiting for his ride.


End file.
